


Come Together

by twoandfour



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:23:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandfour/pseuds/twoandfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 30 Day OTP Challenge starring Ben and Tom. There will be fluff, angst, pillow-biting good times, and tissue-clutching bad ones. Ratings/warnings will vary by post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Holding Hands

He'd worked so hard. So very hard. Long days and longer nights, meals that were essentially glorified rabbit food, workouts that did absolutely nothing but burn fat (and he didn't really have any excess), and lines that were easily six-page, uninterrupted nightmares. He shamefully recalled his one or two on-set breakdowns; seemed that contrary to his character's philosophy on bodily maintenance, food and sleep actually were required to maintain optimal performance of one's physical transport.

 

And on top of all that, he'd still had to act. 

 

But he also knew that the other actors in his category had worked equally hard. And they were all glorious. Their work had made him laugh and cry and kept him up nights. Gorgeous, lovely, every one of them. Especially Tom, though. God, what he'd done... what he'd managed to do. They all deserved this award- had an equal shot at it. But if anyone was going to win it, it should be Tom. 

 

He sat, squirming, comparing his performance to Tom's, and, in every respect, found it to be lacking. The introduction dragged on and on, and then a clip of each performance was played, and with each frame of Tom's face during his bit, his self-doubt loomed larger. By the time they ended and the presenter was on the verge of presenting the award, his head was enveloped in a dark cloud of Christ!-no-if-only.

 

He slid his hands down his thighs and back up. So what if the fans noticed? They noticed everything. And they were lovely and sympathetic and downright vengeful, but he really wanted his work to stand on its own merit, and he was drowning in this attention and anticipation, and all the days he'd worked were clouding his head, and all the nights he'd lost sleep were clouding his judgment, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could school his face...

 

Then a warm, soft, strong hand was squeezing his. Enveloping his fingers. His right hand was being taken by someone's left. Ever- conscious that cameras were on his face, he glanced over surreptitiously. Tom. Was holding his hand. Tom, who was waiting for his own award if it came to that, had reached over in the glaring face of a million cameras, and was holding his hand. 

 

Benedict risked a look up to Tom's face. It was- joyous. Beatific. And that hand was holding onto his, calming him. Steadying him. 

 

He shifted his fingers and returned the squeeze, and was rewarded by a brush of a thumb and an excited smile before that ready face turned back to the cameras. 

 

That accepting, knowing face. That humble smile. Did he know something Benedict didn't? And now people were clapping and he was being pushed up from his seat. What? 

 

Oh. He'd won. He'd-- won? But Tom should've-- But he had. And now there was an arm round his waist and a voice in his ear. "Go on up. Do you have a speech? Go! I'll be here."

 

He made his way up the stage, bulbs flashing, and said... something that he hoped was gracious. He bowed? Maybe be bowed. Was ushered off-stage. He blinked into further lights, and answered more questions, and missed that hand. Then he was ushered into some kind of party where he was handed good champagne, and he said more words, and found that that hand was sorely missing.

 

Time to go. A car was waiting, as it always was these days, and he climbed in. Ugh. Sore and tired. And somewhat empty. Plenty of people who wanted to go home with him, and none of them he wanted to go home with. His hand felt as empty as his sou, and did he ever scold himself for that.

 

Until a familiar hand was snugged up against his. 

 

"Wherever he wants to go," commanded a lovely voice, one that sent longing through his veins. "And whatever he wants to drink, first."

 

Benedict lolled his spinning head in the direction of The Voice and made a noise of approval. "Thanks... Tom." His eyes shut involuntarily, but he found it in himself to speak "whiskey sour, nearest pub." He glanced up, quite a task to be honest, and was greeted by a sunlit smile that nearly caused him pain.

 

He queried, "You're not...? But you deserved..." 

 

"And so, my friend, did you." As a matter of course, there was only humble honesty in those eyes. It pissed him off, just a little. 

 

"So you're not the least upset?" He tried to spit it out as an accusation.

 

But that hand was warm against his, and it responded, even as its owner leaned down and planted a wet kiss on his forehead. "Not even a little."

 

And Benedict trusted.


	2. Day 2: Cuddling Somewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of disgustingly sweet fluff. Cuddling in a tent.

Benedict sat on the floor of his tent poring over his script by lamplight. It wasn’t yet nightfall, but the sky had grown darker, and he’d been unwilling to tear himself away long enough to check the weather. The thought of packing it in and walking up to the house where the rest of the cast were staying nagged at the back of his brain, but he was absorbed in memorizing a particularly long bit of dialogue, and so he put it off.

The zip of the tent’s entrance whished open and he glanced up, a bit surprised, to see Tom. Tom folded himself up and stepped in, then crouched down so they were face to face.

“You,” he said matter-of-factly, pointing at Ben, “are a tit.”

Ben lofted an eyebrow in question. “Why am I a tit?”

Tom rolled his eyes and gestured outside where a sliver of angry sky was visible through the still-open entrance. “Because there’s about to be a torrent of absolutely Biblical proportions, and you’re sitting in a tent.”

Ben sighed and considered that sliver of sky for a moment. It roiled with black, forbidding clouds. “Hmm. Sorry. Lost track of things, I guess.”

Tom rolled his eyes and reached for Ben’s backpack, hauling it over to sit open between them. “Well. Fine. But I really think it might be time to pack it in and join the living up at the house? If you, you know, want to remain living, that is.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Ben replied, and slipped the script into the open pocket of the backpack.

Thunder clapped, lightning flashed, and Heaven’s floor dropped out entirely. Tom took a wall of water to the back and jerked around, frantically tugging the zip closed against the wet assault. When he turned back, the look in eyes was as thunderous as the onslaught outside. Ben swallowed and stared back, then thought he might try to inject a little humor.

“Well... at least we’re a decent-looking pair of tits...”

Tom blinked. Ben swallowed again. Tom sighed a long-suffering sigh and dropped his head, shaking it. Then he hissed a clipped “budge over” and moved to sit on half of the blanket Ben had spread out on the floor. He looked at Ben again, shook his head again, and reached up to ruffle some of the rain out of his hair. He sighed again.

Ben wondered a bit hysterically if he should sigh in return and then they could have an entire angry, awkward conversation in differently-toned sighs, and maybe they could consider it an acting exercise, but before he could implement this, Tom piped up.

“Only you. Only you would choose a camping film during inclement weather on a mountainside to go all Day-Lewis.”

Ben scoffed. “I am not going all Day-Lewis! I just... thought it might be nice to turn this into a bit of a working holiday since we’re here anyway, and it’s been difficult to find a time to get away.”

Thunder clapped again, nearer this time, and Tom groaned and palmed his face. “Tit...”

Benedict sat for a moment, not enjoying the silence (between them anyway, seeing as it sounded a bit like a war outside the tent at the moment), then glanced over at Tom, lips quirking up a bit.

“Well. Better this film to go method than the last camping film I was in.”

Tom blinked up, one corner of his mouth tugging in a telling fashion. “True...” He looked back over at Ben, eyes shining with returned good humor. “Do you think he’d have done it? Day-Lewis, I mean?”

Ben furrowed a brow. “What, actually drowned himself in the ocean for the sake of his art?”

Tom nodded, waiting for his answer.

“Obviously.”

And that was it. They were clutching each other, wheezing and guffawing, desperately trying to drag in air between peals of mirth. 

After a few moments and some deep breaths, Tom glanced down in the vicinity of Benedict’s arse.

“Erm... you’re sitting in a puddle.”

“Yes, you do tend to have that effect on people, though they’re most of the time female.”

Fresh laughter rang out and bounced around the canvas as they doubled over clutching one another again.

When they finally got it all out of their systems and lapsed into companionable conversation, Benedict couldn’t help but notice that Tom had not bothered to take his arm from around his shoulder. Not that he minded. It was nice; warm. He felt a little frisson of something he didn’t know if he should inspect too closely when Tom dropped his hand to rest on his back, instead.

They talked for awhile about various things; their characters and the story in general; their bad luck with the onset of the storm; how they only seemed to manage being together in films that involved tents. 

As the darkness deepened and the tent swayed, rain still slapping the walls of the tent, they opened some of Benedict’s snacks and ate them, still chatting amiably. At one point, they reached into a box at the same time, and their hands brushed. Benedict could’ve sworn that Tom swallowed and flushed a little at the unintended contact, but nothing further was said.

Finally, Tom yawned and stretched, which was contagious, so Ben did the same. 

“I’m knackered. Since we’re stuck in here still, may as well get some sleep, yeah?”

They both eyed the lone waterproof sleeping bag that was rolled up in the corner.

“Oh. Erm. Listen, I got you into this mess, so you take the bag.”

Tom scoffed. “Nonsense. We can um... Well, we can share, if you’re... amenable.”

Ben swallowed and flailed a hand. “Yeah. S-sure. What’s a cuddle amongst friends, yeah?” He smiled his most winning smile and hoped Tom couldn’t see what he was sure was his very obviously racing pulse in his throat.

Tom smiled, cheeks a little pinked, and laughed. “Can’t say I’ve had plenty of those, lately. Cuddles, I mean,” he said as he reached for bag and Ben moved so it could be unrolled.

“I hear you, mate. They’re hard to come by these days.”

Tom nodded. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he muttered.

“Female kangaroos have three vaginas.”

Tom snapped his head up and stared.

Ben shrugged. “You said tell you something you didn’t know.”

And they were off, again. Ben’s abdominal muscles positively ached from laughing, but the warm tingle glowing throughout him from this time spent with Tom made up for it.

As a few final giggles and chuckles blended into the sound of the rain, Tom unzipped the bag and sheathed himself in, scooting over as far as he could and holding the top up so Ben could climb in next to him.

Ben slid in, and there was a momentary struggle as two very tall men with very long legs vied for comfort. But then they settled into something that worked, legs tangled a bit, Tom’s arm draped over Benedict’s waist. Benedict’s face was sort of buried in Tom’s shirt and it smelled lovely. He tried to come up with something not-awkward to say to fill the awkward silence but came up short with, “What kind of washing liquid do you use? Smells heavenly.”

His cheeks burned, but Tom giggled, and Ben could actually hear the sound of him poking his tongue between his teeth. He smiled into Tom’s shirt.

“I suppose this is a bit awkward, isn’t it...” Tom murmured. “Sorry.” He didn’t make to move, though; if anything, Ben felt himself held a little closer.

“Nah. S’nice,” he muffled into Tom’s shirt.

“It is. I... like it,” Tom whispered.

“Me too,” Benedict whispered. 

Then Tom’s hand began making whisper-light, tentative patterns on his back. He shivered.

“Is, um. Is this okay?” Tom breathed.

Ben just splayed a hand across Tom’s back, heart leaping and body warm, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, it really is.”


	3. Day 3- Watching a Movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I *promise* this challenge will earn its rating in the chapter after this. In the meantime, have a lil' poke at Twilight.

“Twilight.” 

“Yes.”

Benedict blinked at Tom, certain he’d finally lost his mind. Tom sniffled and looked at Benedict imploringly through puffy, bloodshot eyes.

Benedict nodded slowly and cleared his throat. “You invite me over to keep you company while you’re sick... and you want to watch Twilight.”

Tom blew his nose and nodded an affirmative.

“How sick are you?”

“Oh, come on! It’s not like I invited you over for the zombie apocalypse and handed you a paring knife...” He giggled a bit at the mental image. 

“...Wha-? Okay. I’m taking you to A&E.”

“Come off it, mate.” Tom succumbed to a fresh bout of chesty coughing before continuing in a bit of a strangled tone. “I just thought that since you’ve got a nice bottle of wine all to yourself and I’m completely stoned on cold medication, it might fun to sit and, you know... heckle it.”

Benedict blinked at him again and took a slow sip of said wine. From the bottle. Considering what Tom was suggesting subjecting him to, his glass seemed a bit too far away, and also too small.

“Really, though,” Tom whined, “what’s your issue with it, anyway?”

“Erm...” Benedict wondered how long the wait at A&E would be if they left right now. “It’s... really, really bad?” he ventured. 

Tom rolled his eyes. “I meant other than the obvious.”

“It’s naive, misogynistic, glorifies abusive relationships and the outdated concept of male superiority, as well as perpetuating the sexualization of the damsel in distress and romanticising the conquest of a seventeen-year-old girl by a century-old man who fetishises her?”

“There is that,” Tom conceded, rubbing the two-day beard on his chin. He thought a moment longer. “But- but they play baseball.”

Ben’s lips quirked into a small smile. “They do, at that.”

Tom pushed further, the (entirely metaphorical) scent of victory on the air. “Vampire family baseball.”

Ben glanced over, eyes gleaming. “Uniforms and everything.”

Tom grinned. “You have admit, you can’t get much more bad entertainment ‘bang for your buck’- as the Americans would say- than vampire family intramural baseball.”

Ben stretched the long fingers of one hand in front of him and considered them, cocking his head. “I can’t argue with that. There’s also the entertainment value of replacing Bella’s name with ‘cheeseburger’ in your head.”

Tom lofted an eyebrow into his hairline and thought a moment through the medicinal haze. “Oh. Because she’s represented less as a person than a meal.”

“Yes,” Ben confirmed. “Or... pants.”

The second eyebrow joined the first. Benedict waiting patiently, taking another swig from the bottle. “O- wait, no.” A slightly longer pause, and then it hit home. “Right! Because Bella’s character is essentially a one-size-fits-all garment meant for the viewer to put themselves into.”

He looked over eagerly, awaiting approval. Benedict thought of a new puppy having finally caught on to house-training. Something warm twisted in his gut. “Exactly,” he confirmed, and Tom beamed.

“All right, all right,” he groaned, and reached for the remote as Tom hitched his sherpa blanket up around his shoulders. “Although I reserve the right to finish this entire bottle, perhaps dip into the other one as well, and then fall asleep on your sofa before closing credits. Out of sheer self-preservation, you understand.”

Tom nodded as enthusiastically as one can on cold medication (it was like nodding through peanut butter). “Of course, darl- mate. Though, be warned; it’s entirely possible I’ll have passed out in your lap before then.” He stared ahead.

Benedict reached over and laid a hand atop his, swigging from the bottle at the same time. 

“No worries. Darling.” 

As obnoxiously dramatic music began to play on the surround-sound, Tom took the first easy breath he’d drawn all day.


	4. Day 4- Kissing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a break in the tension. Ben and Tom come to (some) terms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I am trying to get these two in bed. This one finally takes all that delicious tension to some sort of a head and gets them moving in the right direction. I switched around the prompts for days 4 and 5 (4 was "on a date" and 5 was "kissing") because I needed to at least have a little continuity for these two chapters, and this was the only way to do it. Um. Enjoy?

Tom fiddled with his watch. He always did that when there was something nagging at his brain. Usually when it was something he was trying to push out of it, or at least procrastinate thinking about. He avoided studying its face- Benedict was always late and watching the seconds tick by was an exercise in frustration- and instead worked to make sure the gleaming circle was dead-center between those two particular freckles.

He took a steadying breath, nostrils flaring, and gave a bit of a shine to the timepiece with his opposite shirtsleeve. He glanced at the oven timer; ten minutes till lunch was ready. The damn thing ticked and ticked at him, another layer of time laid on thick. His traitorous brain, without his consent, conjured up exactly how infuriatingly much time the two of them had spent dancing around... this. Whatever this was. 

This thing they’d been doing, or that he’d been doing (after all, he couldn’t read the man’s brain, and wasn’t that also infuriating), since that night they’d spent cuddled together in a tent, exchanging tentative touches that were decidedly un-bloke-like, but never following through. 

There were moments when he comforted himself and built This Thing up in his brain by reminding himself that Benedict hadn’t backed away; Benedict had said it more than all right; Benedict had held his hand all through the opening credits of Twilight and beyond; Benedict had called him “darling” where he himself had faltered. 

Then the moment would come crashing down and he’d remember that in the entire time he’d known Benedict, the man had never done less than go hurtling after whatever it was he really wanted, and he didn’t seem to exactly be coming after Tom.

Coming over for lunch, maybe. But that didn’t constitute coming after. 

Did it? 

To Benedict’s credit, he’d not exactly been standoffish. He was enthusiastically there every time Tom asked, and he’d done his share of inviting Tom over, and he never spurned Tom’s little touches or disregard for personal space.

Then again, he never advanced them, either.

But neither did Tom. 

And so here they were, stuck at this little impasse, or so Tom hoped it was an impasse, and not just his ever-hopeful imagination. He sighed and shook his head, quelling his frustration lest he be forced to see hypocrisy there. He wasn’t exactly one to demure from chasing hope either, and wasn’t sure why it was so damn difficult for one or the other of them to make an actual, meaningful move.

The timer went off, and he had just enough time to pull the bubbling dish out of the oven before his bell rang. His heart leapt up and threatened to struggle its way out of his throat. No matter how long he’d been waiting, he’d apparently not waited long enough. 

He carefully set the dish down on the cooktop to cool and went to answer the door, schooling his face into something blankly pleasant. No need to infect another with his angst. 

He pulled the door open wide and Benedict, smiling, immediately stepped into his arms for an embrace. As was customary, Ben placed a cursory kiss on his cheek. And it might have been- probably was- his imagination, but Tom thought there was a slight hesitation before he pulled away. Either way, it lodged the lump he thought he’d swallowed squarely back in the middle of his throat.

He cleared it, stepping back.

“Come in, come in...” he proffered, flourishing a hand in the direction of inside. 

Benedict followed, hands now in his pockets, and sniffed the air. “Christ. Smells amazing in here. What’ve you got on?”

Tom flushed at the compliment. “Oh, erm... Chicken and potatoes- some tomatoes and olives thrown in.”

“Sounds delicious. I’m starved.” Ben rocked back on his heels and returned, one of his Sherlock curls- the one in front that never seemed to follow direction and stay in its place- bouncing against his high forehead. Tom’s stomach curled along with it.

He ushered Ben into the kitchen and poured him a glass of something complimentary while they waited for the meal to cool enough to not inflict blisters on the roofs of their mouths. Tom sipped, and then Benedict sipped, and there was a bit of shuffling about of shoes; sidelong glances summarily and equally avoided. 

Benedict reached up with his right hand to scratch nervously behind his left ear, a sheepish look fixed on his face, and quite suddenly, Tom had had enough.

He set his glass down on the counter with a thump and his countenance grew dark. “Ben... I can’t.” He closed his eyes and swallowed, and wished with his whole heart that the kitchen floor would swallow him too. 

Maybe he expected shocked and affronted noises. Maybe a shout. Maybe just utter confusion.

A warm was placed in the middle of his back, sending tingles absolutely everywhere, and the hush rang and bounced against the walls.  
“Neither can I.”

Tom whipped around. If that wasn’t an acknowledgment... Time to look This Thing in the face. 

Benedict stood before him, white as a sheet but not backing away, knowing etched across his features. 

Tom made a strangled noise and closed his eyes, balling a fist up against everything rising in his chest. 

“Why-- we’ve been-- I feel like a bloody teenager flirting with a schoolyard crush!” He opened his eyes and stared hard. “Why haven’t you...” It hitched at the end.

Ben swallowed and stared back. “... Why haven’t you?”

Tom fluttered out a rueful laugh and shook his head. They were on the same page, after all. They were; they really were, and now maybe it would all be okay. His whirring brain managed to settle on a bit of remembrance and his eyes lit. He bit his bottom lip and pulled it slowly back out between his teeth.

“Well,” he said, raising his eyebrows, eyes glinting. “At least we’re a decent-looking pair of tits.”

Benedict threw his head back and laughed, curl bouncing maddeningly, then took the final step forward that placed him between Tom’s legs. He half-shook his own head and reached up to trace the shell of Tom’s ear with a fingertip. His smile stretched across his face as he leaned forward and up just very, very slightly. Tom gulped but his gut had finally settled, and now there were neat scripts of certainty writing over the places where jagged lines of fear had slashed.

When his thin lips met Benedict’s lush ones, he gasped. They were impossibly soft. Softer than he’d ever imagined, and he mentally kicked himself for having only imagined them for so long. They were warm and firm and... masculine. And oh, did that feel so very different in such a very nice way. 

He pressed up with abandon, teasing the flush lining of that decadent bow with his tongue, and was rewarded with a shiver and a groan. He slowly brought his arms up to wrap around Ben’s middle, not wanting to spook or spoil the moment, but he needn’t have worried.

Benedict’s arms flew up and his long hands gripped Tom’s shoulders as he tilted his head and deepened their kiss. Tom clutched at Ben’s back, strong shoulder blades slipping underneath the skin underneath the cardigan, layers of absolutely perfect, and he responded with delight. 

When he felt one of those hands travel up to tug at his cropped hair, he couldn’t help tipping his head back and loosing a groan. It boiled up from a deep place and made its way out of his mouth, threading into the fragrant air. 

Benedict gasped and whined, clutching his hair even tighter and then releasing it to slip through his fingers.

“Christ,” Ben breathed.

Tom caught enough breath to wrench open his reluctant eyelids and meet the primal blue-green gaze a half-inch from his face. His heart stuttered. “What,” he whispered. 

He thought- hoped- he knew the answer.

Benedict, never closing his eyes to release Tom from their depths, placed another kiss on his lips, sweet until it bit. Those orbs danced with the promise of time made up.

“Oh... you know,” he smiled wickedly. Tom’s stomach did a perfectly executed flip and he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing furiously. “I’m suddenly inclined to find out how many times I can make you replicate that... exact... sound.” 

Tom gave him the second one for free.


	5. On a Date, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had to split this one up into two chapters. I am giving you a very solemn promise of shameless smut in part 2, though. 
> 
> Oh, come on! You know you like foreplay.

Benedict shifted uncomfortably, albeit someone unconsciously, in the passenger’s seat of Tom’s car. A date. He was on a date. An actual, planned, fairly traditional date- one he’d been asked on- with Tom. Said man grinned over shyly, hands gripping the wheel, and looked as though he was about to say something, but didn’t. 

Even so, the silence was far from awkward. It was amiable; companionable. And Benedict had always very much appreciated people with whom he could share comfortable silence. People with whom he didn’t feel the need to continually fill a void with noise and chatter; whose mere presence was enough. 

So the source of his minor discomfort had nothing to do with Tom. Not directly, anyway. This was fine all fine and he let his mind wander in the direction of the heady first kiss they’d shared two nights before. Tender and aggressive, soft and firm, rutting fully clothed against one another as he’d pinned Tom to the edge of a countertop, exploring a pent-up need and an utterly surprising mutual want. 

He, unable to help himself due to the throaty moans issuing from Tom’s mouth (and wasn’t that the point?), had come all over himself in his pants like a teenager. Thankfully, before shame could adequately paint his features, Tom had jerked and twitched and groaned against him, leaving them both an equally sticky mess. 

After panting into each other’s respective throats for a moment, Tom had looked up at him, eyes wide and green and imploring (like fucking Rapunzel, he thought), and said, “I want to take you out.”

His brain had lapsed for a second. “L-like,” he’d stuttered, “on a date?” There may have been a couple swallows in between, for good measure.

Tom had thrown his gorgeous be-curled head back and laughed, and wasn’t that all rainbows and sunshine. “Yes! On a date.” The man’s lips then curled up into an absolutely innocent and guileless smile. “And the best part,” he punctuated the word “best” with a finger jabbed into Ben’s sternum, “is that we don’t even have to clear it with our publicists.”

Ben had furrowed a brow at him with a look that said “but everything has to be cleared through our publicists” and Tom had laughed (so fucking adorable, tongue lodged between his teeth) and said, “But here’s the thing. You and I have only ever been seen with women. On top of it, we’re established friends. So if we get tarted up and go out on the town together, we’re still just a couple of blokes doing a bit of ‘male bonding’. Right?”

Ben had leaned in, heart pounding and overjoyed with previously un-thought-of possibility, and kissed that optimism right off his face. “Yes. When?”

Ben shifted again, clearing his throat out of habit. Tom glanced over, beaming. “All right?” he asked, sympathetically. After all, this was his first rodeo, too. 

“God, yeah,” Ben answered, laying a not-entirely-subtle hand on Tom’s thigh. It was completely worth it to see the man’s throat bob in response. “Just... enjoying the view, I suppose.” He smiled.

“Fair enough,” Tom murmured, turning bright eyes back to the road, a quiet smile still pulling at his face. 

Ben squeezed his thigh, eliciting another satisfying gulp, and left it there, turning his face back to the car window. The next part of the saga then played out in his brain.

He’d gotten home, nary a sexual-identity crisis in sight, but more nervous than befitted a grown man about to go on a traditional date. Lacking any other option, he’d immediately rung up the only person in his life he thought could possibly help him. Wade. 

To his credit, he had wondered if it was offensive to have immediately thought of the most flamboyant gay man he knew to help him through this particular not-really-a-crisis, but he’d punched in the number and hit “dial” before those thoughts could really form.

“Benedict...” A low, cheeky voice answered.

“Wade!” He had to smile. Such a lovely, lovely man.

“What’s up? Makeup emergency? Last-minute twist and diffuse? Need a large gay man to intimidate the fangirls?”

Ben had laughed. “Oh! No. Actually... this is a bit personal. I need some advice. If you’re willing to proffer it.”

He could hear Wade smiling through the phone. “Lay it on me, gorgeous.”

Ben had let out an embarrassingly whiny sigh, then said, “I have a date.”

Silence on the line, and then, “Babycakes, you’ve never emergency-called me for a date, before. She someone special?”

More silence. Ben had cleared his throat a few seconds before he felt ready to respond. “Erm. He...?”

And yet more silence, but only (thankfully) for a short moment. “Sweetheart, will this be your first time with a man?” Asked plainly, professionally. That he could deal with.

“Yes.”

“Do you know... is it his first time with a man, too?”

“I... don’t know. I think so?”

“Okay. When is your date? And please tell me it’s not, like, three hours from now.”

“No! No, it’s... night after tomorrow.”

Relief was palpable on the other end of the line.

“Do you have some time tomorrow?”

“Yeah, got the next few days off.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic. Come in to see me tomorrow, then. I’m gonna talk you through this. And also wax you.”

“W-wax me?” Ben had had enough time for a full-bodied flush before every bit of blood in his body had run, screaming, away. 

“Yes. Talk, then wax. Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. You’ve seen worse. Besides... are you hoping something beyond a little innocent and clothed frottage will happen with this man?”

“How the hell did you know about the frottage?”

“Answer the question.”

“Y-yes!”

“Then you need to wax. Tomorrow. Noon-ish.” And Wade had hung up to leave Ben with his thoughts. 

The following day, at approximately 12:15, had been one of the most simultaneously painful and most comforting experiences of his life. 

“How did it feel when he kissed you?” He’d gotten out soft, lovely, gorgeous, when there was a sudden rip in the fabric of his soul.

But before there was time to process it, “Oh, God, you just rutted like beasts until you came in your pants, didn’t you...” And another rip as the memory played out. He’d called out to some dubious deity.   
“Shush, darling.” Wade had soothing post-torture fingers, with some sort of magical cream at the tips. “Here’s the thing. He sounds like he really likes you. And you sound like you really like him. Hell, he asked you on an actual date, which is more than I ever get, most of the time.”

Ben had nodded through his gasping pain and searched Wade’s eyes for deeper meaning. Wade had smirked, though not unkindly. 

“Listen, yeah? I waxed you because I’m hoping to God you’ll at least go down on one another, and- believe me- the quickest way to kill the mood is having to dig pubes out from between your gorgeous teeth.”

Ben had smacked himself in the forehead with his own hand and groaned.

“But that’s not all!” Wade had atoned, affronted. “That’s not all,” he reiterated, this time in a somber tone. 

Benedict had sat up, adjusted himself, and nodded his attention. 

“You’re both new at this. Be gracious. Be kind. Do what you’ve done, but don’t be afraid. Men aren’t so different from women; we’re all people. Men like to be touched. We like to be kissed. We like to make love every bit as much as we like to fuck, and we don’t see anything wrong with either. Let your man take you out, let him woo you, let him flaunt. Then let him take you back to his place so you can show each other what-for.”

The lovely, burly, forthcoming man had clasped Benedict’s hand so firmly and with such sincerity that he’d clasped him round the shoulders and not let go till he’d gotten enough.

“Thanks, mate,” he’d murmured, a bit breathlessly.

“No worries,” Wade had spoken kindly. “This cream, every few hours, nothing that chafes,” he’d encouraged. “And wear black trousers with a white shirt and a dark blue jacket, no tie. Trust me.”

And so Ben had. Trusted him, that is. And while his crotch still stung a bit and he hadn’t been able to put on pants without worrying about puddling up, the more important words rung in his head. “Men aren’t so different from women.” 

We’re people, he thought. And he likes me. I like him. God, he’s gorgeous, and I want him. 

He shifted anew, but with an entirely different reason, as Tom squeezed his hand and pulled into the car park at the restaurant. Tom leaned over for a quick kiss and Ben surprised him by latching on to his top lip and giving him a smouldering look from under hooded eyes. 

Tom furrowed his brows and brushed fingertips along Ben’s cheekbone. “What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, hopeful.

Ben gasped and growled and shuttered his eyelids. “I hope... you. Soon.”

Tom shuddered.

Ben smirked and kissed him senseless again. “After dinner. And whatever else you’ve got planned.”

Tom groaned and clutched Ben’s curls, heart hammering, then pushed him back in the seat.

“Dinner. Then... plans,” he hitched.


	6. On a Date, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date continues, and comes to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This date will drag on into a part 3, and possibly a part 4. I just wish these two would shut the fuck up.

After straightening themselves out a bit -smoothing down jackets and taming rumpled curls- they entered the restaurant. Tom wondered if he should hold the door for Ben, seeing as they were trying to seem like any other two blokes out for a “boys’ night”, then realized that it was something he’d do normally for anyone anyway, but then wondered if Ben would see it as an affront to his masculinity seeing as they were both trying on This Thing for the first time and...

He was saved from this miniature existential crisis by a smartly dressed host who opened the door for them both and ushered them inside. 

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said courteously. “Your table is ready; if you’ll please follow me?” He turned and led them through a beautifully lit and lively floor where pairings and groups of all sorts sat enjoying their respective meals. As Ben glanced around, he realized immediately why Tom- wonderful, thoughtful Tom- had chosen this specific place.

It was neither cloyingly romantic nor irritatingly bustling. The lighting was soft and ambient but no candles graces the tables. It was the type of place where a couple could go and enjoy intimate conversation and one another’s company, but it was just as easily a place where one could woo a client or celebrate a birthday with family. In short, it was perfect. He smiled and glanced up at Tom who was walking just ahead of him. He had to raise an eyebrow as his gaze slid surreptitiously down and over his arse.

Firm, sculpted, marvelously fitted out in his grey trousers. A runner’s arse, to be sure. He pulled his eyes reluctantly back up to rest in the middle of Tom’s back, where he could (more safely) admire the deep, deep blue of the back of his waistcoat. 

Finally they were sat on either side of a high-backed booth with frosted windows in frames of oak. Again, Benedict marveled at Tom’s thoughtfulness, noting the immense measure of privacy it afforded them.  
Once they’d settled in and had been handed drink and food menus, Ben caught Tom’s eye.

“I like this place already,” he said.

Tom smiled and seemed a bit relieved. “I’m glad. I came here for a bit of cast to-do once and just really liked the feel of the place. And the food is amazing.”

Ben returned the smile, eyes shining in the soft light. “And it has nothing to do with the martini menu?” He quirked a mock-accusatory eyebrow.

Tom poked his tongue out between his teeth and laughed. “Can’t put anything over on you, can I? They have Gibson martinis. You try to order one of those in most places and they look at you like you’re sporting two heads. I mean, what kind of bartender hasn’t heard of a cocktail onion?”

Ben laughed. “Not a very good one, I suppose. So is that your recommendation?” 

“Absolutely. Erm... would it be alright if I ordered it for you? I promise it’ll have you groaning in your seat.” 

Ben smirked. “Are you sure that’s wise? We do have to make it at least through dinner, you know,” he said, dropping his voice to a low rumble.

It had the desired effect. Tom visibly flushed and his eyes turned wide and wicked. His ankle very deliberately brushed Ben’s under the table and Ben had to turn his eyes back to the drink menu to keep from vocalizing his sudden, pressing thoughts.

They were rescued from public spectacle by a server who efficiently took down their drink orders. 

“Ah... yes,” said Tom. “Two Hendricks Gibson martinis, very dry, two onions each, please?” 

The server stepped away, promising to return for their food orders momentarily, and Tom took a moment to survey Benedict over the top of his menu.

He looked absolutely delectable. The shirt he was wearing brought the blue in his eyes to the fore. The light cast parts of his face in deep shadow and made other parts of it more prominent. His lips... pink and pillowy and- Tom recalled, stiffening slightly as his heart raced at the memory- soft, sweet like candy, and gloriously demanding. His lovely brown curls, shimmering with a deep auburn that no dye could cover, were a dark halo. God, but this man was gorgeous.

“...Tom?”

Tom shook his head a bit to clear it. “Hmm?”  
Ben looked up, brows furrowed. “Is there something on my face?”

Tom’s own eyebrows shot up at the seeming random nature of the question. “Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“Because you were, erm, staring at me.” Ben cleared his throat and reached up with long fingers as if to check.

Tom gaped at him for a moment and then laughed, long and hard, while Ben stared in confusion.

“Oh- oh God!” Tom breathed. “You honestly have no idea, do you?”

Ben just shook his head, still gaping. Tom’s eyes softened. He honestly, really didn’t know. Which only made him that much lovelier, if he was honest.

Tom reached across the table and brushed Ben’s wrist with his thumb. Ben swallowed but didn’t look away.

“I was staring at you, you enormous twat, because you’re one of the most infuriatingly beautiful human beings I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

Ben rolled his eyes up into his head and was about to scoff and possibly say something self-deprecating when Tom stopped him with a squeeze of his fingers to the man’s wrist. “Don’t. Please don’t. I think you’re stunning, and so does at least half the rest of the world, so just accept it, darling.” He smiled softly to smooth the gentle reprimand and held Ben’s gaze. 

After a moment, Ben nodded shyly. “Thank you.” Tom smiled and squeezed again in response.

At that moment, their drinks were delivered. They placed their food orders as the two glasses sweated enticingly onto the table. Once the server had bustled off, Tom gestured to Ben’s glass. “Go on,” he said. 

Ben reached for it and took a slow sip. Tom’s eyes hooded at the way those decadent lips wrapped around the lip of the glass. He was further distracted when Ben rolled his eyes up into the back of his head and moaned as he swallowed, throat working up and down.

“Oh, GOD,” he exclaimed. Tom smirked and shifted in his seat. “Why in all the circles of Hell have I not had one of these before?”

“Eheheheh. Glad you like it.”

“Like it?! You’re ordering my drinks from now on,” Ben returned, eyes twinkling. 

Their meal was served, and they ate robustly, snagging tantalizing bits from one another’s plates, each eyeing the other’s enjoyment. Ben bemoaned not having ordered the pork belly, while Tom made somewhat obscene noises over stolen mushroom risotto. 

All the while, their legs brushed under the table, and they stole fleeting touches of fingers and palms. 

Tom signed the credit card receipt while Ben slid his jacket (which had been discarded some time back) back on. 

“So,” he announced as nonchalantly as possible, “I’d thought about making this as cliche as possible and taking you to a film after dinner...” He paused to hand the black leather double-fold back to the server who thanked him and scurried away. “But then I thought that maybe you’d rather enjoy a walk in a lovely little park nearby?”

Ben smiled, eyes lighting. “Yes, I think I’d like that very much!” 

The one martini had worn off entirely, and Tom silently cursed himself for having decided to drive rather than take a taxi, because he really could’ve used some liquid courage, right now. He’d parked the car and they’d gotten out, stripped down to shirts since the evening was warm, and were walking in deepening circles around the little park, moving slowly to its hedged center. 

The conversation was lively and entertaining as always, and neither was ever at a loss for a witty rejoinder or a related anecdote or a thoughtful, intelligent addition. But Tom could feel they were approaching... something. They wound tighter into the middle of the park and Tom reached down and took Ben’s hand. 

Ben faltered in the middle of a story he was telling and slowed. They were on a path that led through a thicket of trees. Ben sighed and glanced at their entwined hands, seeming a little relieved. 

“Been wanting to do that for ages,” Tom murmured. 

Ben smiled and glanced up through his eyelashes. “Me too. I just...”

Tom waited, then asked, “Just what?”

Ben swallowed. “I- I honestly don’t know.” He turned so he was facing Tom, and reached a hand up to stroke his cheek. Tom’s eyes threatened to flutter shut, but this felt too important to do anything but maintain eye-contact. 

“I-” Ben started, faltered, collected himself again, still stroking Tom’s shorn cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I- you’re- I really like you. I mean, I’ve always liked you. You’re a brilliant actor, and incredibly smart, and a kind and generous human being. Not to mention the fact that you’re ridiculously good-looking.” 

Tom went to roll his eyes but Ben stopped him. “No- no. If I’m not allowed to, then you’re not either.”

Tom smiled shyly. “Fair enough, I suppose.” His heart hammered in his chest as he waited for Ben to continue. He hoped to high Heaven there wasn’t a “but” in there, somewhere. 

“And”, Ben said, and Tom released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “I want you. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.” Tom gasped, and Ben leaned in for a soft, gentle kiss, then pulled back and studied Tom’s face. “I don’t really know how all of this is supposed to work,” he murmured. “Do you?”

Tom looked up into nervous, eager eyes, and took a very deep breath. “I think we’re just supposed to do whatever feels good and right,” he replied, breathlessly, and applied his lips to Ben’s, heart leaping at the sound the man made and the way he was suddenly being handled round his middle in enthusiastic response. Ben’s arms clutched at him, pulled him close, and his pink tongue pried Tom’s mouth open to lick up and inside. 

Tom groaned and allowed himself to be backed up and pinned against an available tree, arms brought up above his head and pinned at the wrists as Ben explored him deeper. He left his arms where they were when Ben’s hands left that location to stroke firmly down his shirt-front, grazing his nipples. “Ugh, oh, God...” he whimpered. 

Then he nearly came unglued as one of Ben’s large, warm, strong hands cupped him through his trousers. “Uuunnnnn,” he whined, bucking into it, utterly lost. “Yesss, please...” He was rolling his hips, desperate for friction, mouth tilting up to catch a kiss if he could. 

“So lovely,” that voice rumbled, vibrating into his chest and radiating out. “Christ, so lovely. Are you about to come? I don’t want you to come, yet.” 

Tom wrenched his eyes open and stared. “I’m- it’s...” Benedict pressed another urgent kiss to his mouth and said “Wait..”

Then he swiftly knelt and undid Tom’s zip and hesitated only briefly before pulling his cock out and stroking it tenderly. It was the look on his face that did it; admiration and wonder, a tentative touch, the sight of his elegant hand wrapped around Tom’s shaft, pumping up and then down almost sympathetically. 

“Ben, I’m-- Oh, God, move out of the w--” Hot white ribbons shot out and coated Ben’s face despite the warning. It was literally painted in the stuff. He was perfectly still, not moving, not speaking, not reacting. Tom had broken him. Oh, God.  
Then Ben rose swiftly and gripped Tom’s face, eyes fierce. They held the gaze for a breathless moment before Tom reached up and swiped some of his own spunk from Ben’s cheekbone. “Sorry,” he whispered. 

“Oh, God, don’t be,” Ben responded, and yanked Tom closer to his chest, holding him there. “Take me home,” he whispered desperately. “Please, take me-- take me home,” he demanded. “Whatever you want. I’m ready. I-- I want you. Just take me home.”


	7. On a Date, part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are Thoughts, discussions, actions, and sleep.

Tom held on for dear life, clutching Benedict’s shirt-front, heart frantically thudding its way out of his chest as Ben’s words coursed through him. “I’m ready. I want you. Take me home.” The man was holding him close, those fingers splayed across his back, what felt like the most uncomfortably enthusiastic erection pressing against the top of his thigh, whispering “please” like a mantra.

He shivered and bit back a breathy groan; something cool and sticky transferred from Ben’s cheek to his own as he panted. Something... Oh, dear Lord. He pulled back and stared at Ben’s face for a moment, wide-eyed.

Ben studied him back, then his brows furrowed. “What is it?” he asked, concern worrying at his voice. “Have I got something on my face?”

Tom’s eyebrows shot up and he gaped at Ben incredulously. “You’ve- you--” He shuddered as the laugh shot out and upward from his solar plexus and seized him bodily, collapsing against Ben helplessly as he shook. Ben swayed with the force but caught him and held on for a moment, feeling very confused and bordering on cross, when his brain finally caught up. Then he was just as much collapsed onto Tom as vice versa. 

Tom wheezed, “Yeah, mate...” Ben shook harder as he anticipated the punchline. “You- you’ve got... ME on your face!” 

“Oh, GOD--” Ben was laughing so hard, his grip on Tom was slipping, and he nearly slid right down to land on his arse. Tom tightened his grip and turned them so Ben was leaning heavily against the tree, still gasping. Tom calmed a bit, still chuckling all the while, and pulled back enough to pull something soft and white and neatly folded out of his pocket. He began to swipe gently at Ben’s face with it.

Ben grinned up at him. “What- Oh, God, sorry.” He swallowed a fresh bout of giggles. “What is that?” he asked a bit breathlessly.

Tom smiled and ran it firmly across one of Ben’s eyebrows, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Handkerchief.”   
Ben raised an eyebrow. “You actually carry... real, actual handkerchiefs,” he said slowly. 

Tom gave him a maddeningly innocent look; one that said, “What, doesn’t everybody?”

Ben just shook his head and looked at him adoringly. “What am I saying. Of course you do.” 

Tom winked at him, which made his heart do a happy little skip, then looked down at the thing. Apparently coming to a decision after a beat, he looked back up at Ben through his lashes and slowly, deliberately, stuffed it back in his pocket. Ben’s next breath froze and shattered in the column of his throat.

“I believe,” Tom purred, stepping closer and bringing his lips to the shell of Benedict’s ear, “that we were about to make our way back to my flat? Yes?”

“Christ,” Ben hissed, giggles evaporating from around that low, thrumming need in his core. “Yes,” he exhaled.

Tom pressed a kiss just below his earlobe, then drew back to pull him away from the solid strength of the tree. Tom held his hand all the way back to the car. It was different, this. Not odd, and certainly not uncomfortable (he’d made his peace and his mind up), but different, doing something so simply intimate as holding hands with another man. 

It made him smile. It seemed to confirm in a small way that this wasn’t just about sex for Tom, either. Not that he thought it was, but it was nice for the knowledge to manifest in a physical way, as well. He didn’t know what this was, or what it would or could turn out to be, but there was something underneath the new-found lust that felt familiar in a way that made his body recall blankets on sofas and lazy breakfasts and quiet chats on pillows in the snug womb of late hours. 

His heart raced anew at the thought. Could something like that ever possibly be? Was that something he truly wanted? He knew, somehow, that it was. Tom had been a solid friend prior to the onset of... This Thing. They knew each other; respected one another. Had certainly leaned on each other a time or two. They got along while being able to appreciate their differences, and weren’t all those things the strongest kind of foundation for any kind of relationship?

As it was, though, he had no idea whether any of things were desires Tom shared. Yes, he could tell it was about more than simple animal instinct... but... but...

Tom opened the passenger’s side door but stopped him before he could slide into the seat. His face held concern.

“You went somewhere for a second, there...” he whispered, low. “Are you- are you having second thoughts?” His eyes were kind and searching.

Ben squeezed his hand and smiled. “Not second thoughts, no,” he replied honestly.

Tom kissed his temple and murmured, “Just thoughts, then?”

Benedict nodded. 

Tom sighed. “Me too, if I’m honest,” he said, raking his fingers through his curls.

Ben’s heart lurched a little until Tom reached up and gently gripped his arms, meeting his eyes. “You’re my friend. And you’re about to be- and in some ways, already are- my lover. I don’t take either of those things lightly.” He took Ben’s lips tenderly, the spike of worry in Ben’s gut already softening, then pulled back again. He ran the pad of his thumb along the line of Ben’s jaw. “Please stop worrying?” he pleaded. “We’ll figure this out together, right?”

Ben kissed his thumb as it ghosted past his lips. “Right,” he smiled genuinely. “Yes. Right.”

~ 0 ~

They sat in comfortable silence, Tom focusing on the road, Ben staring out of his window at the London night. About mid-way back to Tom’s flat, Ben let out a quiet chuckle.

Tom glanced over, eyes dancing with curiosity. “What’s funny?”

“Oh,” Ben shrugged. “Just something that keeps coming up between the two of us..”

Tom narrowed his eyes, laughter in his voice. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Ben caught his eye, smirking, then turned back to the window. “You know... Just what a great-looking pair of tits we make.”

“Eheheheh! Indeed. Enormous, gorgeous tits.”

“Lovely, perky, bouncing tits.”

“Round, gently sloping, succulent tits...”

“Mmm. Firm, heavy, squeezable tits.”

“I do love tits..”

“Me too.”

There was a beat of mutually wistful silence.  
“How much longer till I can push you against a wall and snog you senseless, then?” Ben inquired.

Tom groaned. “God. Ten... ten minutes?”

“Drive. Faster.” Ben gritted his teeth and growled. The sound nearly made Tom run right through a traffic light in his eagerness to have it closerclosercloser. 

~0~

Finally. Finally they’d parked, and Ben had jumped out to open Tom’s door for once, and they’d waved nonchalantly to the doorman- just a couple blokes having a late night, after all- and then Tom had fumbled with his keys once or twice, cursing, and then they were through the door as it snicked shut with Tom having locked it resolutely behind them.

The sound ricocheted off the concrete block and plaster with a sound like finality. 

For a breathless moment, all that could be heard was the quiet hum of modern life- the constant whisper of dormant electricity. Ben’s eyes flickered over Tom’s face, softly illuminated by the tiny and ever-glowing blue and green and red indicators that reminded one, even in the dead of night, of what century one occupied. 

Tom, for all Ben’s earlier verbal wishes, was the one to step forward first, breaking the silence and whispering, “How on earth are you so beautiful?” Ben blinked at the wonder there. Tom leaned forward and pressed warm kisses along the ridge of his brows. Ben melted into him, bringing his arms up and around Tom’s lean middle, nudging his chin down so he could kiss his lips.

Tom wrapped his arms around Benedict’s shoulders and teased the lining of his lips with the tip of his tongue. Ben sighed and brought a hand up to run long fingers through his hair, then to tilt his face so as to deepen the kiss that much more. Their tongues slicked and teased and told what words wouldn’t, while hands smoothed and sought. 

Tom brought his hands reluctantly out of Benedict’s now-riotous hair to trail firmly down his front, grazing his nipples through his shirt. Ben moaned and latched onto his wrists, holding them at his waist. He blinked sluggishly and willed his eyes to focus on Tom’s face. Etched, wanting, and lovely. 

He was about to speak when Tom saved him from it. “Bed? Please,” he exhaled. Ben kissed him again and said, “Show me.”

They moved silently down the hall, Tom leading Ben by the hand. Ben was very tempted to thrust Tom against the bedroom door and have right there, but there seemed to be more to this than that. It was as if the air itself was waiting. Tom led him through the door and left it open. He left Ben’s side for a moment (and Ben didn’t know what to make of the sudden, bereft, almost hollow feeling) to switch on the light in the en suite, bathing the tidy room with its high, generous bed in soft yellow light. 

He scrubbed a little nervously at the back of his neck and smiled up at Ben. “I... want to be able to see you,” he confessed. 

Heat crept up Ben’s spine, enveloped his midsection, and threaded its way up his throat. He flushed, feeling suddenly very vulnerable. Deciding to take the situation in hand and end both their suffering, he whispered, “... I want to see you, first.”

Tom gulped, but fluttered his lashes, and said, “Okay..” He worked his elegant fingers into the fastenings of his clothing and it fell away, piece by piece. He worked efficiently, not bothering to stop and tease, maybe out of embarrassment or unfamiliarity, or maybe just out of the constraint of need, but it had the same effect on Ben, all the same.

Layer by layer, Tom laid himself bare, and God, he was lovely. Taut, corded muscles under golden flesh, twin disciplines of running and yoga readily apparent; he was long and lean with a sharply defined V drawing the eye first to that heavy, swollen cock, then downwards to travel the significant length of his powerful legs. 

It made Ben thirsty in ways he didn’t know he was capable of. He sighed and licked his lips, fingers clenching at his sides.

When Tom finally stood in the low light in all his glory, completely unashamed, he took a step toward Benedict, eyes and voice demanding. “Now you.”

Ben’s heart beat a ragged tattoo as he slid off his jacket and reached for the placket of his shirt, undoing each button, eyes still holding Tom’s. He slid off his belt while toeing off his shoes. Tom’s breath quickened visibly.

It was only when Ben had unzipped and was about to shuck off his trousers that he remembered and was suddenly just a little embarrassed. Tom caught the hesitation and reached for his wrist.

“What’s the matter?”

Ben groaned, and not in a delighted way. “I’m...” he blushed crimson. “I’m not wearing any pants,” he muttered. 

Tom cocked his head, a bit amused. “To each his own... But, why not?”

Ben looked up him imploringly, deciding honesty was the best policy, here. “I freaked out when you asked me to dinner, because I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, or wear, or anything, so I called my friend Wade, the stylist, and he told me what to wear, and made me come over and get--”

He stopped to breath, shame spreading through him.

“And get- what?” Tom was smiling as if he already knew the answer. Bastard.

“Waxed,” Ben groaned, nearly whining, and wanting to shrink into a molecule of paint on the wall.

There was what sounded like a sharp intake of air through gritted teeth just across from him, though, and he glanced up just as Tom flew forward and pinned him against the wall.

“You’re... Oh, God. You-- there’s nothing?” It sent a shiver down Ben’s spine to hear the heat permeating Tom’s velvet voice. 

“It’s- all gone,” he replied, desperately hoping that that was the right answer.

Tom moaned a rather delicious, drawn-out moan and ran his hands down Ben’s chest to lay his hands on the waistband of his trousers. “Please. Please, may I...”

“Yes,” Ben consented, mouthing along Tom’s shoulder. “What- whatever you want.”

Tom pushed Ben’s trousers down and followed the movement of his hands with the rest of his body, kneeling before Ben on the carpet, echoing a very recent memory. He reached up to still Ben’s hands and to give them a place to be as he examined him hungrily. 

He was lovely. Long, uncut, not quite as wide as himself but close; the head was peaking out, red and angry, weeping pearlescent. Tom’s mouth watered, and he felt just a bit of guilt at knowing for how long Ben had been hard. The best part was, every glorious inch of him, every rise and plane, shone in the low light, deliciously unfettered by any hair at all.

Tom had never been bothered by hair. On anyone. Hair was natural and beautiful, and he sincerely didn’t mind working his way through or around it. The only reason he hardened impossibly more and uttered a guttural growl as his eyes roved over Ben’s anatomy was that he knew how much more sensitive skin could be after a shave or a wax. 

He knew intimately how much more quickly the information contained in a swipe of a finger or the long, wet stripe of a tongue could enter the brain and be interpreted as pleasure when the recipient was as shorn as shorn could be. 

He felt Ben’s strong, thumping heartbeat through the fingers he’d laid on his wrists, and couldn’t help placing his lips around the base of his beautiful shaft and sucking.   
Ben tightened his fingers and cried out. Tom smirked against him, and he seemed to feel that as well, because Tom was then being pulled up and very thoroughly kissed. 

“What,” Benedict panted, “are you doing to me?”

Tom beamed and began to haul Ben toward the bed in the center of the room. “Come on. Please. I need... I need to put my mouth on you. Gorgeous. You’re gorgeous. Please. Come on!”

The backs of Ben’s knees hit the bed and he clambered up backwards until he was more or less splayed out in the middle of it. Tom was too eager to allow any repositioning as he pushed himself up to hover over Benedict’s body and lean down for a long, wet, filthy kiss that left Ben in a bit of a puddle, before sliding back down his body and positioning his mouth directly back over Ben’s straining cock.

Ben had wanted to say something. Anything. There’d been something there, on the tip of his tongue, but it was swallowed up by Tom’s hot mouth engulfing his prick. He surged up, forgetting himself, but Tom- ever one to attune himself to his current situation- simply rode out the movement and then pressed his palms flat against the planes of Benedict’s hips to keep them down. 

God, that mouth was magic. He’d had his share of blowjobs before, but this was... Every squeeze, every long lick, every hard suckle was new. Tom whined and moaned around him as he teased his foreskin with his lips, and pointed his tongue to swipe at his tip. Ben twined his fingers into Tom’s hair as the man wrapped his hand around the base of his shaft and used it to pump him up into his hot, eager mouth. 

His other hand was smoothing over Ben’s skin, every inch of it that could be reached, gently but deliberately, and then reaching down to tug at his bollocks. 

Then Tom positioned himself up a little and leaned down to take Ben in as much as he possibly could. It might have been slightly too much, as Ben felt himself hit the solid back of Tom’s throat with a slight accompanying gag, and then he was done for.

He pulled desperately at Tom’s hair as he shouted out a warning. “Tom! Tom! I’m- Oh, GOD! I’m--” But Tom refused to back away. He locked his mouth around Ben, hollowing his cheeks and sucking like a man starved. 

Ben bucked nearly completely off the bed and coated the back of Tom’s throat with spurt after spurt of white-hot ejaculate. Tom just reached around to grasp his ample backside and squeeze as he attempted to drink up every drop.

Ben was boneless and panting as Tom made his way back up to wrap his arms around him. He slung an arm over Tom’s shoulder and shut his eyes, reveling in the feel of the strong, masculine body that greeted him.

“God,” he managed. “Christ...”

Tom nuzzled into his neck. “Yeah?” Well, wasn’t he just a giant housecat? 

Benedict pulled him closer and somehow managed to get at least the sheet up and around them both. He was still breathing hard and stars continued their dance behind his eyes even as he struggled to open them.

Tom snuggled in, entwining their legs together, hands gentle but possessive, which made Benedict twitch in a delightfully wanted way. 

Their eyes met. Tom blushed something shy, but Ben nipped at his jaw, all teeth, and growled, “Amazing. You’re amazing,” into his ear. 

“Fuck,” Tom whispered, and went to suck at Ben’s lips and chin and cheek and neck, again. 

After a moment, though, it dissolved into something quieter; less thirsty, and more... more. Tom kissed Ben’s lips softly, almost chastely, arms tightening around him under the cool, crisp cotton of the sheet. Benedict smoothed the wrinkle out from between Tom’s brows with his lips, kissing his eyelids closed, and gave a sated sigh against his ear.

“Stay?” Tom’s voice was a hushed, self-preserving thing.

“Of course,” Ben burrowed, settling in for the long haul.


End file.
